


silence in between the songs

by lualovespugs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, It's pure fluff, M/M, post-apocadon't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 14:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lualovespugs/pseuds/lualovespugs
Summary: Crowley could never play as soft as the notes on paper told him to, or be as slow and steady as the tempo demanded. But this he did for Aziraphale, who loved to hear the piano before resting his eyes.And Crowley did love Aziraphale afterall.-in which a certain demon learns how to play the piano just so he could make a certain angel happy.





	silence in between the songs

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey! this is 4k of cute ineffable husbands shenanigans. this is unbeta'd aaaaand my first time writting after a good few months of not writing a single word :'>
> 
> you can find me on tweeeter and instagram! @ lualovespugs
> 
> enjoy! <3

In the quiet post-apocalyptic world, the sun still shines the same way and the days still have approximately twenty-three hours, fifty six minutes and eighteen seconds. The earth still rotates around the sun just like all other planets in our galaxy do, keeping the cosmic balance always tipping a bit towards the right. The sunrays, however, now seem to distort whatever it hits, giving it (or them) a special kind of glow; it has the power to turn the most devilish of beasts into a house puppy, or paint an image that makes the trickiest of demons look like, well, look like exactly how  _ Crowley _ does right now.

Or maybe the sunlight always did that, but Aziraphale was never one to notice. 

"Crowley, my dear, I have a delivery coming my way in about... ten minutes, would you be so kind as to finish putting these books in the backroom for me?"

Aziraphale has been stocking up on any book that seems interesting enough for an angel to read, and he hopes his customers would be just as intrigued as he is (although not too intrigued to the point where they’d want to purchase it). The bookshop went through a few changes, of course, since the Antichrist wished for everything to return to its usual state, but no one seemed to mind. On the other hand, Crowley made sure to place some plants, paintings and a splash of grey on the walls– he didn't mind the cramped mess, he was a demon after all, and no amount of change would affect the cozyness of the bookshop, for that was Aziraphale's doing.

"Uh, yeah sure, let me just finish this page..." He says, slowly sitting up, folding not the tip, but the whole page in half so to keep score of his reading. Aziraphale stops in his tracks as he takes in Crowley, laying by the window and letting the last light of the day soak in his dark clothes. He holds a book in hand. 

"What have you got there? Are you  _ reading _ ? That's a first! I am very proud of you, Crowley."

Crowley hisses and hastily closes said book, giving the cover a quick glance, "No, no, it's not a book, angel, don't insult me." Aziraphale looks away, a sad blue taking over his face. Crowley takes note to read an actual book soon. "It's a comic book, very different things you see," he stands and stretches his arms, and mutters something about his glasses while sweeping his eyes over every counter and balcony around. The air surrounding him swivels its dusty particles together with his head, and Aziraphale finds it heavenly. Almost like a halo. 

“This one in particular, not that it would interest you, talks of a boy possessed by a  _ demon fox. _ Amazing doing from our japanese folks, lovely lads as always.” Aziraphale looks mildly interested, and asks about the closure. Would he gain control over his own demons? Or would ‘downstairs’ take credit for this win?

“This is the first volume, how the hell should I know. Ask me again once I’m done with the other, let me see, _ seventy one volumes!? _ Nah, I'm not reading this.” Crowley is now standing up as he throws the manga on the couch– clearly having no intention of reading that many volumes, hands then reaching for his jacket and wrapping it around his shoulders, eyes still wide in search of his sunglasses. 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and fumbles for his breast pocket, where he knows Crowley's sunglasses are, and hands it to him. He hears a faint thanks, and lets Crowley follow the path laid out by the bookshelves. Not that he needed the wise guidance of books, Crowley has always been very familiar with how the bookshop’s laid out. “Oh, Crowley, dear! I almost forgot.” 

With a witty snap of his fingers, Aziraphale miracles a key, _ your copy of upstairs’ door key _ , he states, and hands him metal so beautifully crafted, it felt like an understatement to call it just a key. Crowley has little time to react as Aziraphale walks away with a satisfied look, one that moved mountains in its spare time, leaving Crowley to wonder. 

_ Upstairs?  _

Upstairs is just the second floor, which is very much open to the general public and occasional customers and has  _ always been there _ , since before it was Aziraphale’s little heaven in the heart of a busy city. Crowley makes his way to the back room before giving the key a bit more thought, completely forgetting about the books he was supposed to bring with him. Door closed behind him, he leans his back against it.  _ What in Hell am I to do with this?  _ He gives his mind a rest, pushing the key deep into his pocket, focusing his eyes on the room surrounding him. Plants 16 and 17 are growing quite nicely, reaching out for the sun’s blessing that comes down in cascades through the high window; they look nice and refreshed, but Crowley still reaches for the water sprinkler and sings them words of repramandment. He might’ve complimented them afterwards, but that stays between him and his plants. 

The key still weighs heavy on his pocket, and for a moment it seemed to shiver. Which is unusual for a key to do, as far as Crowley’s knowledge of inanimate objects goes. He fishes it out of his pants and it immediately slips out of his hands and his disastrous effort to avoid it from hitting the ground goes all in vain, ‘cause the key  _ floated _ . It floated through the air, featherlike, until it stopped. The very tip of it faces up, toward the ceiling, toward Her. 

Had Crowley not decided to trust Aziraphale with this life millennia ago, he’d say for sure this was some sort of trap. 

But in this very universe he lives in, and has the privilege to live in it next to Aziraphale, the one most intelligent and beautiful angel, he knew nothing of the sort was to happen. So when he looked up, and saw something he was sure wasn't there two days ago, a small pull down door that heads towards the unknown, he felt no fear or anxiety. He feels normal, much like he feels everyday next to Aziraphale. 

Could there be a universe where they ended up as actual, working, functional enemies? Where one lived without the other, were it by the hands of fate or by their own doings. Crowley wished not to think of those possibilities, and instead thought himself to be lucky that his reality graced him with an angel that was just enough of a pain in the ass to be called loveable. 

Crowley snaps his fingers towards the ceiling door and snatches the key with his other hand; a ladder falls down in parts and opens up a path. Actually, no, it opens up to a big iron door lock beautifully adorned, and a key hole that seems to ache for the item in his hand.

Pushing through it, he is faced with a brightness his eyes didn't expect, even for supernatural standards. Takes him a second or two to get used to it, and then he sees the room clearly. 

A bed in the corner, with enough space for two bodies, some cardboard boxes filled with books and timeless trinkets he knows are valuable to Aziraphale, as they're all neatly placed and wrapped. Skylights allow the room to be filled with a warmth Crowley didn't know he needed to feel, but felt familiar nevertheless. A bird, a pigeon, a  _ crow _ , flies by the window and its shadow caresses the beige carpet, leaving marks in the world much bigger than its small body could ever were it unable to fly up and away.

Crowley is bound to the earth and all that rests below it, leaving behind a stain too small to be worth washing away, yet too trivial to be noticed by humanity. 

He pulls himself up fully and shuts the door as quietly as he can. The room feels out of place, a structure that belongs to another world and any sound made in there dies by the white walls. The only souls to know of the secrets whispered, trapped between four walls, were the Mystical and Supernatural. And, well, a DaVinci original that hangs from a nail.

This room certainly must resemble Heaven more than the cramped bookshop did, assuming that some changes have been made in the last 6000 years. The faint memories that clung to Crowley’s brain like a lifeline were made so long ago, he can’t tell if they were fabricated responses from his brain to deal with his internalized issues– but now is not the time to ponder over that. White halls, white columns and forced transparency in the form of transparent walls. 

Does he really miss that, after spending hours with Aziraphale in his twisted idea of Heaven?

The windows letting only yellow hues of light to come through and even so, they only added a vintage look to it, certainly giving off creepy vibes to the passersby. In the end, that was most likely Aziraphale’s intention, always so protective of his books.  _ I wonder how much money he actually made out of this.  _

Crowley smelled wood, carved and polished, resonating with each breath he took, oak and resin, sunlight and fire.

The strings that pulled his legs, then arms, then tugged slightly on his hypothetical lungs, gently enough to make his breath hitch, seemed to come not from heaven nor hell. They were flat out, horizontally, divided between the two otherworlds. A gentle wool, knit by gentler hands. Whoever it was, Crowley would end up grateful for them, as they led him towards something new, standing tall and cold in the wall behind him. Covered by a thin blanket, like a lid that serves only to cover the main dish and leave the audience excited even if they’ve already read the menu. There is a piano, unlike the upright piano that can be found being used as a second desk, lost in a sea of papers, newspapers and just straight up mess; its chords eaten up by the salt, emitting notes that no longer can be perceived by mortal ears. The pedals rusty and broken apart slowly, merely a vessel to the songs that it once sang. 

The long tail that followed, showing of its chords touched by M

idas himself, and the wood still burning. Not a concert grand, but a grand piano, nearly as charming as the one at the Ritz, always being played by the most experienced of hands, joints cracking with use. 

Crowley was never a man of secrets, or, well, never a man in the first place. His cards were shown to the world and his world had two very smart eyes and a wonderful, but sometimes dumb, brain. But he told himself that the effort to hide this one single fact from Aziraphale was worth it: his very own hands have been practicing the piano for a hundred years now. 

Although he has mastered most songs he put his mind into learning, his devilish fingers weren’t exactly made for Piazzola’s delicate tones intertwined with rushed, hard edged passages. Crowley couldn’t quite get the chords to play the honey tones of Erik Satie, but this he wasn’t doing for himself; it was for Aziraphale. And so he persisted and tried as hard as he could, for as long as time allowed, until the moon howled to him and he had to howl back to fight for a few more minutes sitting by the piano, spending most of his alone time idling his fingers over the keys and often managing to accidentally learn a Queen song or two. He could never play as soft as the notes on paper told him to, or be as slow and steady as the tempo demanded. But this he did for Aziraphale, who loved to hear the piano before resting his eyes. And Crowley did love Aziraphale afterall.

It’s just him, the piano, and DaVinci. 

He plays a note. It resonates high and old, the wood cover hiding away the keys being pushed up and away from the main dish. He plays an actual note, and the sound dies by the window. The soft bench is at a perfect height, practically made for Crowley to sit in, and so he does, feeling welcomed and inviting. He doesn’t have his piano sheets with him, why would he?– so he recalls a simple melody from memory and even if iron stays in the way of him and Aziraphale, he’s careful enough as to press down on the right pedal, shushing away any sounds that could be strong enough to cross the universe to the very bookshop that stands beneath him now. 

His mind wavers, travels far from where he stands, even if the song guiding him isn’t a sweet as intended. He can’t appreciate the songs he plays to its fullness, but the atoms in his body that are still partially angel are enough for him to know what’s good and what’s not; more stiffness or gentleness? Is it  _ andante _ enough, or is he going too slow?  _ Piano _ or  _ pianissimo _ ?  _ Don’t miss that  _ da capo _ , Crowley.  _

The very stars that he hung in the sky would never mind for such frivolous act. Playing such intricate instrument would be easy for an angel, and sometimes Crowley wondered if Aziraphale did and if this was all a mistake, a waste of time– he had plenty of that, at least. Maybe one day, centuries ago, the piano placed in the bookshop was to be uncovered and played for hours, until Aziraphale’s fingertips were imprinted into the keys and the chords sounded dull and frail. 

Not a sound is heard through Crowley’s ears, for the song he plays he knows by heart and his heartbeat is synched to the tempo. He misses a note and winces, but never stops dancing over the pristine keys; an awful dance, perhaps, but he persisted in hopes of presenting something good enough to make those little mistakes dismissable. 

Then, a bang, the universe was created. Another bang was to follow it, but nothing was heard. 

“ _ Crowley? _ ”

Ah, there it is. 

His hands freeze, hovering above the warm music he was playing. His ears perk up like they heard something unpleasant and he finally feels the burning sensation taking over his foot, the metallic pedal shining a weak red from being overused. 

Crowley turns his head around, daring not to move his body much, “What’s up, angel?” he says, trying to maintain a cool he doesn’t have, and swallowing down a scream he didn’t know he was keeping down. 

Aziraphale has half of his torso through the iron lock, flaming sword in hand and his face shows a rollercoaster of emotions: going from a menacing face (meant to scare no one), then a quick, easy grin, and in the end, furrowed brows and a tad of anger. His sword then becomes a regular one as he continues to enter the room. 

“You scared me, you demonic… jerk! I thought someone had broken into my shop, into my room, I was so scared!”

“It’s just me, Aziraphale, stop being so dramatic, who else would it be?”

Aziraphale closes the door behind him, putting the sword away and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his vest. He sighs, "How would I know Crowley, I didn't know you–" he gestures to the perfect picture painted in front of him; a demon, or at least he was to be one but his actions weren't worthy of such demeaning word, caught in the headlights– and an unspoken song hovering above them. 

The angel takes a few steps towards Crowley,  _ oh so _ slowly so as to not disrupt the wet paint. He crosses the flickering light beaming down on the floor. His shadow is a light blue, as if he’s reflecting the shard of sky that can be seen through the skylight, pure and calm; his shadow is not much bigger than the space he occupies physically on earth. Crowley secretly finds solace in that. 

In the 6000-plus years of their not-really-rivals to friends journey, Aziraphale has come to learn a few things about Crowley. It'd be weird if he  _ didn't.  _ One of those things is that he could not, in fact, lay eggs like a snake would, but that's not exactly  _ relevant  _ to the situation here, it's just a fun little fact. What Crowley hates the most in human relations is how blunt and straightforward some humans are, making the best use of words and the scary power they hold to get the answers they need. Crowley is and has always been  _ terrible _ with confrontation. So Aziraphale often has to tiptoe around tricky words and tender eyes to get to the point with him. 

"So… I see you've found my  _ secret room _ . I do hope the key worked just fine, I wasn't sure it would point to the right direction and," Aziraphale paces around the room,"well, I had it made specifically for this but–"

"Angel, hey, angel! I'm here aren't I? It worked just fine." 

Just like that, Crowley has Aziraphale's full attention, and any worries that nagged at his brain fly away right then. When blue meets yellow, when troubled waters meet the sunkissed sand on the shore. 

"Oh. I suppose you're right. Well, I'm glad then." In a flutter, he sits down on the bed at the very opposite corner from where the piano is. 

Crowley dares move his arms and legs, turning around to properly look and talk to Aziraphale. He has a perfect posture, like always, his palms facing down and resting on his thighs. He takes his eyes around his room, absorbing it all in as if he has never been there before. Then they fall upon Crowley again, so naturally. He asks something about the room, but Crowley doesn't quite hear him over the sound of waves. 

"Do you like it, this room?" Aziraphale repeats himself.

Crowley takes a second to look around again, and let that cozy feeling sink into his non-existing bones. "It's quite cozy. A very different cozyness from the one downstairs I'd say. It's unlike your taste in architecture, Aziraphale." 

“It was planned to be like this from the start.” Aziraphale gestures his hands from one place to another like he does when he's nervous. 

“Thought it would be nice for you to have a heaven-like place for yourself.”

Crowley would be lying if he said that didn’t hit differently than the other favors and surprises Aziraphale has done for him in the last six millennia.

“I know how much you miss that place, Crowley. And it’s a lot different from when you first went there, it’s all white walls and vast spaces filled with nothing at all. It’s no fun.”

“This is for  _ me _ ?” Crowley says, softly, unbelieveling, and stunned.

To feel the environment around him knowing that it was made for his eyes, his hands, his touch– dare he say he feels flashes of  _ love _ . 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I had you in mind while creating this, yes.” 

He can’t seem to find Crowley’s eyes now and finds a single string threading out of his sleeve very interesting.

“Oh, um.” A pause. “That’s quite nice, it’s, well,” Crowley fumbles for his glasses and puts them on, like a swordsman running for cover last second. “Thank you, angel.”

The notes that come out of Crowley’s strings are  _ pianissimo _ , light and gentle and naked. Barely there but so,  _ so _ sweet and rewarding.

His sunglasses are definitely not hiding a pair of beady eyes, of course not.

“I’m glad you like it, my dear.”

The piano stands in the way.

Aziraphale is quick to chatter up about his new books that just arrived and already have been placed in a new shelf, and now he can’t wait to read them through the night. Crowley stands up and examines every surface and object in sight, a hundred times more comfortable now that he knows the place is his  _ –theirs _ . And they fall into old routine.

And the piano rings loudly through the room. 

  
  
  
  


The sun lays low in the sky, and a sunflower placed neatly over a small desk is tempted to follow its movements. Crowley speaks up first. 

"I know you want to ask about it, Aziraphale. Go ahead." 

This moment has been over a hundred years in the making, when Crowley first plays for Aziraphale and no one can tell what the outcome will be. His hands tremble, just slightly, as they're shoved into his pockets. Aziraphale is quiet, but his nerves, or the angelic equivalent of nerves, are prone to shutting down any minute now. 

He's taken aback by Crowley's straightforwardness. It's unexpected, for sure, but not unwelcome at all. "I don't want to push you, if you're not comfortable-"

"There's no point in learning the piano if I don't show it off, and I didn’t learn it for my own ears, in any case." He says over his shoulder, head down and slowly climbing the mountain that stands between him and what could be a total disaster. Crowley's steps waver, but his mind is steady.

So he sits down on the bench, hunched over,  _ nervous.  _ A pair of sunglasses is placed, silently, on the piano; a pair of hands linger together, twisting and turning the finger joints until they crack and sparkle, starting a fire. He hears the springs of the bed’s mattress creak, as Aziraphale stands up and wordlessly looms behind him like a cape, protecting him from the judging eyes in the sky.

Crowley miracles the sheet for Erik Satie’s  _ Gymnopédie _ , so worn out with notes and scribbles adorning the edges that he had to put adhesive tape all over it so it wouldn’t fall apart. Aziraphale finds his chest warmer than usual. He senses a dedication so strong and an adoring motivation coming in waves from those four thin sheets– heavens, what did he do to deserve Crowley. 

_ Start of easy, stay in rhythm, this is fine,  _ are the words that fill Crowley’s mind as he places his foot over the pedal, the tingling burn coming back to him. 

He presses a Sol, and it's smooth, and it's smooth until the very last chords he plays. It goes by in a second, drifting through minutes the mind didn't take record of and went through with muscle memory alone, hoping he didn't accidentally forget to raise his foot off the pedal at every bar. Then Crowley remembers the little mistakes he did all at once, crashing over him and drowning him in worry.

He didn't press the pedal as fast as needed on the ninth bar, he quickened the tempo twice and his fingers weren't agile enough to find the right notes for the finale in time and he was off beat –he failed, he failed, _ I failed– _

The voice of his beloved speaks volumes. "My love, I- that was  _ perfect.  _ Words fail me this instant but I'm... I’m wildly proud of you, and it felt like Heaven to hear you play for me.” Crowley still hasn’t taken his eyes off the piano, Aziraphale brings movement to the stale air when he closes in and places his hands on Crowley’s shoulders.

Every ounce of tension runs in despair. All of Crowley’s anxieties leave through his pores and he’s light again, like he could breath in and float away; but he is bound to the dirt and the earth. He could cry, but he doesn’t. Instead he tentatively pulls away from the piano keys and finds comfort in placing his own over Aziraphale’s hand the same time Aziraphale leans in and loses himself in a field of ginger, a fleeting scent passing through his nose, and it brings back memories. 

“Thank you.” Aziraphale whispers, and every part of Crowley’s head is chanting and screaming ideas too absurd to be written out. Then, there’s the quick press of lips to Crowley’s head, and things go silent. 

It’s hard to describe how long they stayed like that, connected at the fingers and slowly breathing in more and more of each other, until they became one. Crowley started caressing Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb, in a somewhat unconscious decision, but a good one nevertheless; and Aziraphale’s free hand now rests near Crowley’s neck, and rubs his bad thoughts away. 

Perhaps if Praxiteles could see them like this, there’d be one more sculpture to be placed under his name, and it would be his best one yet.

When Aziraphale asks Crowley to teach him how to play as well as him, they sit side by side, and let the day drive past them, hidden from the rest of the world– as they should be. When he questions Crowley about his foot, “Doesn't it hurt? Pushing the pedal, I mean.” Crowley just shrugs. ”You got quite burnt at that church back in London.”

And Crowley’s foot does sting, it tingles even after he’s done playing. But this he endures for Aziraphale, and nothing else matters. 

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from The Front Bottoms' 'Somebody Else':
> 
> Silence in between the songs  
Catches everyone off guard  
If it's a little too much to bear right now  
You can look forward to showing off the scars


End file.
